by Davina Bell
And I really, truly mean it.
On my way to the dance rehearsal at Corner Park Clubhouse, I can’t stop smiling. Finally – FINALLY! – we’re all going to be together, Belle and Sophia and Maisie and me. And Matilda, too, I guess. It’s finally all going to come together, just like I planned. I am dying to tell them about my revolutionary croissant breakthrough with Nana Marjorie. TBH, I’m also dying to show off the earrings that I made last night. They’re tiny gold medals to inspire Maisie at the State Champs. I wonder how her training is going. So much of it!
I told Soph I’d fetch Pony Soprano so he can be at the rehearsal. On the way I swing by Belle’s house to see if she and Matilda want to come with me to get him.
To my surprise it’s not Belle who answers my knock on the door. It’s Francine, her mum.
‘Lola,’ she says in surprise. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages. How is everything?’
‘Tally saw your painting!’ I tell her. ‘At MoMA!’
‘Jacuzzi – that old thing?’ Francine grimaces. ‘How embarrassing. How are you going at Clives?’
‘Oh … er,’ I say, feeling myself blush. ‘OK, I guess.’
She frowns. ‘Not a glowing review. Isn’t it any good?’
I think about Clives – the teachers who are so passionate, like Miss Ellershaw. The kids who don’t even notice it’s the weekend because they’re so in love with what they’re doing. The studios, bursting with the most delicious art supplies. No, it’s not that the school is bad. I try to put together the words for everything I’ve been worrying about at Clives, but I can’t explain it all. ‘It’s just – I … I feel like every other artist there is better than me,’ I blurt eventually.
Francine looks amused. ‘Lola, I paint horses for a living – sometimes horses in space. Every second day I feel like I’m not a serious artist – that everyone else is better than me. It’s just part of being creative. You feel that way but you do it anyway.’
‘And it doesn’t ever, like, go away?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘But, Lola, when I’m painting, when I’m really inside the painting …’
As she searches for the words, I think about Mayor Magnus singing. I think about Rishi at the keyboard. I think about Maisie at gym. ‘It’s like you’re flying,’ I finish for her. ‘And you wouldn’t be anywhere else.’
She nods as Matilda walks up behind her, pulling her hoodie over her head. ‘Don’t give up,’ Francine says, letting Matilda past. ‘See you, Tilly. Oh – and Lola, tell Rishi that Punk and I love the new album.’
‘You’ve heard it, too?’ I ask, but she’s already shut the door. ‘Where’s Belle?’ I ask Matilda.
‘Sleeping,’ says Matilda.
‘WHAT?!’ Belle, sleeping in? Are we living in a parallel universe?
‘I couldn’t bring myself to wake her up. She must have been up all night.’
‘Memorising pi?’ I ask. ‘Listening to the Huckle Roses?’
‘And making this.’ She hands me a long list, written in kind of wild, jerky handwriting – not like Belle’s usual robot cursive. ‘All the things she still needs to do for the musical. She thinks that she’s dedicated too much time to her directing career and has neglected the planning and she was freaking out about it, so I told her we’d sort it out, you and me. Hope that’s OK?’
So much for all of us being together today. But actually? It will be fun to tackle this with Matilda, and without Belle there to boss us around.
‘No worries,’ I say. ‘Let’s do this.’
Half an hour later, we’ve crushed Maisie in a giant group hug and got the lowdown on her gym routines (floor – going well! It’s inspired by Spanish bullfighters. Beam – not so well! Tricky dismount. Urgh.) Now she’s brushing Pony Soprano in the clubhouse garden as Soph and Matilda and I sit on the steps. She looks so happy to be out in the sun, and I’m reminded of how hard she works, shut away in the gym day after day.
‘Item one,’ I say, reading from Belle’s list. ‘Lighting. Well, that’s obvious. Punk Sherman can do it.’ Belle doesn’t usually let her mum’s boyfriends have anything to do with her life. But Punk knows a lot about lighting because he’s a circus engineer.
‘I’ll ask him,’ says Matilda. ‘He’s usually around a lot.’
‘Belle might crack it,’ says Maisie, running the curry comb over Pony Soprano’s back.
‘I can handle that,’ says Matilda.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Item two: Backing soundtrack. Version without words for cast. Easy. Rishi could make that with ProTools – that’s music software,’ I add.
I go through items three to seven and come up with some solutions: Putting chairs in rows, spaced at identical intervals (can do that ourselves with a tape measure, I guess, though it sounds quite boring); Fundraising buckets (ask the Eco Worriers to hold them); Microphones (ask Punk Sherman again); Make-up (Francine – she can paint cat faces) and hair (Aunty Claire). By Item eight: How to make costumes more ‘cat-like’? (with cat-head hats), the others are looking really impressed, especially Pony Soprano.
‘Is there anything else?’ asks Matilda.
‘It says, NOTE: Cloud Town unhappy with our backstage area – are providing marquee at their own expense. So I guess that’s done? Oh! Here’s something that’s not even on this list. Do you realise this place has no access for people in wheelchairs?’ I ask.
‘Oh, yeah,’ says Maisie slowly. ‘Who knew?’
‘I knew,’ says Sophia quietly. ‘I brought Gracie here in her wheelchair. I had to piggyback her inside because she wanted to say goodbye to the clubhouse.’
We’re all quiet for a second, remembering when Gracie got so tiny she could be piggybacked anywhere. Once I carried her onto a ferry and it was like holding a girl made of cotton and fairy floss and air.
‘Well, I’m going to get a ramp installed somehow,’ I tell them. ‘I reckon Gracie would approve of that.’ I run down the rest of the list:
Refreshments? (Soph will bake cupcakes for all the actors. We’ll see if Grey Dare, the singer from RexRoy, can operate Mikie’s coffee cart for the audience.)
Program printing? (Soph’s mum can do it at work.)
Program folding? (Belle thinks of everything.)
Program distribution? (This means putting them on people’s seats. See? Everything. Gwynnie can do that.)
Then we’re up to the second-last item: Final dance number – song choice and choreography.
We go into the clubhouse so Soph can show us the dance, and truly? It’s excellent, even without music. She’s used some classic moves – the Pony Punk Funk and the Big Lasso and the Dip and Roll. Pony Soprano’s solo is really jazzy. The whole thing ends in a human pyramid that will bring the house down.
‘It’s genius,’ I tell her.
‘But I can’t decide on the song. It has to be, like, warm and fuzzy,’ she says.
‘And the audience need to know it straight away,’ I add, ‘so they go “Awwww!”’
‘And it’s got to demonstrate that the character of Catilda has learned to trust people through her relationship with Miss Honey,’ says Matilda.
She’s right. I try not to mind that I didn’t think of that. ‘Well, you know what song’s popular at Sunny Heights right now?’
‘You’ve been visiting your nana?’ asks Maisie.
‘I’ve been going since Tally’s been away,’ I tell her. ‘And they’ve been playing “I Want to Hold Your Hand” by the Beatles. Could that work?’
‘Can you sing it?’ says Soph.
‘You know I don’t sing solo,’ I say crossly. That’s Tally’s thing.
Matilda starts humming, and her voice is surprisingly pretty – deep but soft. No wonder Belle has made her the understudy for every part.
Soph tries the steps and they match the rhythm perfectly. Yes! We run through the whole dance, and finish just as Judy comes into the clubhouse. She applauds from the back of the hall.
‘Did we read to the end of the list?’
Matilda asks.
‘Yep,’ I tell her.
But we didn’t, actually. There’s one more item.
Sets – back-up plan? I feel hurt that she thinks we need one, but ...
Gulp. There is none.
Sorting out the stuff from Belle’s list is SUPER satisfying. By Monday morning, I’ve ticked everything off. I’ve even painted the fundraising buckets with Gracie’s face and got Grey Dare to run the coffee cart on Saturday night. Unfortunately that means I’ve run out of excuses. This morning, I tell myself, I will DEFINITELY start those sets. Only six days to go. And I can’t even procrastinate by seeing my friends. Sophia has holiday swim squad this morning. Maisie has her final leotard fitting before State Champs, and then she’s visiting Coach Sanders and taking him the card Matilda made. (It looks really good, BTW.)
Soph’s mum has convinced Belle to do a Slo-ga class with her at lunchtime, which is where you do yoga while wearing a sloth mask to remind you to take things slowly, and by some miracle, Judy and Matilda and Francine and I have persuaded her to take a day off the musical. And Matilda and Gwynnie are taking Pony Soprano to have his hooves painted so he looks smart for the show. But we haven’t been together since last week. Can you believe that?!
‘Seriously, are we not going to hang out at ALL these holidays?’ I ask Rishi when I head down to the basement, where he’s drumming.
‘You and me? We’re hanging out right now,’ he says distractedly. ‘Though I kind of wish we weren’t because I’ve got to finish re-recording this.’
‘No! Me and the girls.’
‘Isn’t it Soph’s birthday soon?’ he asks. ‘Can’t you all hang out then?’
‘Yeah, but she doesn’t want to do anything, like, birthday-ish,’ I tell him. ‘And everyone keeps having other things on. The musical was supposed to bring us all together, but …’ I guess if I were over at the clubhouse painting the sets and putting them up, it still would be. Hmm. My bad.
Rishi shrugs. ‘Then make it an un-birthday party for the rest of you. People can’t cancel on their own party.’
‘An un-birthday like in Alice in Wonderland?’ I say. ‘Rishi … you’re a genius!’
‘And if you like,’ he says, adjusting his snare, ‘RexRoy can play. We’ve been looking for a chance to do our new set live. Well, most of us. Jules is at the snow. Can we have it in the clubhouse or somewhere, like, private – in case we suck?’
‘WHAT?! You’d do that? For me?’ I ask.
‘More for Soph,’ he says. ‘Because, you know, it’s her first birthday since Gracie … you know.’
What other big brother remembers stuff like this? I literally can’t stop myself throwing my arms around him, almost knocking him off his drum stool.
‘Can I borrow fifty bucks?’ I ask him after I’ve kissed his cheek.
The next few days are a total crush of un-birthday madness. I tell Soph I need her help painting backdrops at the clubhouse after the rehearsal on Wednesday night, and that we’re going to all meet to say good luck to Maisie for her gym competition before the musical really hots up. I tell everybody else that Soph doesn’t want to make a big deal of her birthday so we’re all having an un-birthday instead, and miraculously, EVERYBODY IS FREE! Though I’ll believe that when I see it.
We tell Belle Tuesday’s rehearsal has been cancelled because Gwynnie fed Pony Soprano too many sugar cubes and that the actors are memorising lines at home. She believes us (phew) and takes the opportunity to stay home reading Knitting For Anxiety. Within hours she’s doing the most complicated and elaborate patterns and really getting into it. Matilda texts me updates. (Sort of sick of listening to the Huckle Roses, BTW!!) I drop off a cup of Honey, Comb Your Hair.
In the meantime, I go into some kind of party-planning frenzy. I won’t bore you with the details, but it involves pulling things out of our garage, a lot of sewing, a trip to Better To Be Read Than Dead, some graphic design work on the computer, some epic paper garland folding, and three Raptor sessions with Dad. That’s how many I had to trade him in return for a trip to Cloud Town to buy a bucket of chalk and some canvases from the Arty Farty Party, my favourite art supply shop, and a half-spherical tin at Bake the World a Better Place. By the end, I feel as if I’ve really located my inner-dinosaur, which is apparently the point of Raptor, along with the benefit of improved heart health.
I’ve lined up Judy and Mikie and Patrick, Gracie’s bestie, for special jobs. I’ve gone to Maisie’s gym and watched her practise (ARGH! SHE’S INCREDIBLE!) and then brought her back to Powell HQ for an emergency drumming lesson with Rishi. I’ve convinced Candy, the receptionist from Sunny Heights, to let me pick every flower in their garden. I’ve lost (and then found) Gwynnie and Pop in an op shop when getting the last bits and pieces for the Catilda costumes (traumatic) and sewn a lot of cat hats out of old towels and talked to council about installing a ramp at the clubhouse. By Tuesday night they’ve agreed to install one just in time for the musical (VICTORY!), and on Wednesday morning the Sunnystream Gazette even runs an article saying it was my idea. It has my photo and a description of Catilda and everything, although it does describe me as ‘Chief Set Designer’. Eek.
Needless to say, I’ve done nothing about the sets and the clock is seriously ticking. Only three days to go!
During the full-cast rehearsal on Wednesday night, I see Pepper Peters and Lucy Coop (the Cloud Town Cougars’ goalkeeper) sitting up in a tree, looking in the window and making faces like it’s terrible. But Catilda isn’t terrible. It’s spectacular.
Belle is back, wearing a knitted scarf so long that Mikie trips on it. Mayor Magnus is fantastic as Catilda. The costumes? Matilda’s done an incredible job. They look good. Punk Sherman’s lighting is sensational. And the dance number at the end with the human pyramid and the Beatles song? Well, it’s everything. When it finishes, I wolf-whistle so loudly that everyone covers their ears.
At the end, we all form a big circle with our arms around each other. Matilda runs through the call times and the schedule. Judy goes around the circle and gives feedback to every cast member. Belle is beaming. I bet this was her idea. Probably from an online masterclass.
‘Lola Powell,’ Judy says when she gets to me, ‘you’re being very mysterious about the sets, but I’m assuming they’re magnificent.’ Boy oh boy, does that make me feel guilty. ‘Guys, I don’t want to jinx it,’ Judy says at the end, ‘but seriously? I think that for the first time in the history of the Biennial Sprint-Musical Triangular Trophy, a golden hat-trick is on the cards.’
Cheers bounce off around the clubhouse – you can almost see them, pinging around like those stars that spring out of birthday sparklers. It’s weird and kind of amazing to think that all this has happened because of … well, because of my idea to do the musical, I guess. And sure, it hasn’t been exactly how I imagined, but Catilda feels warm and funny and full of love. You know what? It feels like Sunnystream.
On the way out I give every single person their cat hat. They high-five me, and I feel like a hero. And I feel like a fraud. Seriously, what am I going to do about those sets?
Maisie arrives from gym just as Matilda and Soph are about to take Pony Soprano back to the stable and then go with Soph’s dad to pick up a bubble machine from the Willowbank Rec Centre (Punk Sherman’s idea!). While they’re away, Belle and I are going to transform the clubhouse for Soph’s party – it’s all arranged.
‘Did I miss anything?’ asks Maisie.
‘Only the greatest show on earth,’ I tell her. ‘Seriously, Belle? It’s sounding good. Like, really good.’
‘Like, really good,’ I hear someone mimic in a super-annoying baby voice down the side of the clubhouse, and then there’s giggling and the sound of people running away.
‘Why are they even still coming here?’ I ask Belle. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘They’re trying to get inside our minds so we panic and make a mistake,’ she explains. ‘But little do they know, we’ve got a secret weapon.’
‘You mean Pony Soprano?’ I ask.
‘I mean you,’ she says as the others set off. ‘Thanks for taking over while I got on top of my –’
‘Knitting,’ I finish her sentence with a wink. ‘It was nothing,’ I say, but I can tell my dimple is popping. It gets like that when I feel proud.
I grab her to give her a knucklehead and muss up her beautiful lob, but my thumb gets caught in something around her neck, like a chain of some kind. But Belle doesn’t wear jewellery. ‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Nothing,’ she says frantically, trying to tuck it back into her T-shirt.
But it’s too late – I’ve seen it. It’s one of those necklaces that come in a pair. Each pendant is half of a heart, and when you push them together they spell something. Belle’s says BE-FRI. And you don’t have to be a genius to figure out that Matilda will be wearing a matching one that says ST-ENDS.
I know Tally’s the famous one, the dramatic one, but at Soph’s party I give such a good performance that I wonder if maybe I could be a professional actress. I play the part of ‘generous party host with no personal problems’, especially not the kind that involve being officially best-friendless.
‘This is definitely not a birthday party for you,’ I tell Soph when she arrives and stands at the clubhouse gate, looking up at the strings of fairy lights that we’ve hung over the verandah. ‘It’s actually for the rest of us. See?’
I point at the path up to the steps, where I’ve written ‘A Very Merry Un-birthday to You’ in loopy chalk writing and decorated all around it with giant flowers. Along either side are tea light candles in paper bags. Gracie’s tree, over in the corner, is hung with strings of paper flower garlands that kept Gwynnie and Pop busy for ages while I made the most important part, which I’m holding behind my back. I pull it out. ‘For you,’ I say. ‘And we’ve all got one – even Lemon Tart,’ I add hurriedly, who was Gracie’s giant rabbit, but is now Sophia’s.